The mammography room where
my left breast is talked about
is small, and on the desk stands
a rubber spatula
in a silly wicker basket in the shape of an owl.
Rubber pads on machines can't cushion the words
nodule, left quadrant, biopsy.
My blood drips from bitten cuticles
(I could never shake your hand,
His voice on the other end of the phone is only
36 hours too late, babbling about tastes
not having colors, and Swedish Fish turned hairy
at the bottom of a pint glass of beer.
Some performance, this life.
This pain and swollen mass, this
learning how to listen
to these vibes, the ones that tell me when
to cry, when to write.
Telling me: he was never the one.
I'm always looking, just as deep,
trying to pick up the one blip in the x-ray
that could mean something
or nothing at all.